


That Time Courfeyrac Became Santa

by ecrituredelafangirl



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, Holiday Fic Exchange, Kid Fic, Kissing, M/M, Much fluff here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredelafangirl/pseuds/ecrituredelafangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“O, good, you’re home,” Grantaire said, walking in from the kitchen. He was wiping flour on an apron, and had white all through his dark hair. “Courf said that they’re bringing the boys over in an hour. I was thinking we could have dinner when they got here? And then we could give the boys their presents, feed them some sugar, and send them off to wait for Santa.” He smiled up at Enjolras then. “That sound good to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time Courfeyrac Became Santa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsTeatimeSomewhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsTeatimeSomewhere/gifts).



Enjolras had never liked Christmas. He had never been given a reason to like Christmas, not in his youth, not in his pseudo-adult life, not ever. Aside from that, it was also one of the worst examples of consumerism he had ever experienced. It was so bad that he just scowled at the television on Black Friday, before carrying that scowl straight on through until December 25. 

Grantaire found it hysterical. 

“C’mon Enjolras. People are _happy_ ,” he had said one evening, several years past. He had been wearing a Santa hat set at a jaunty angle on his unruly curls and was smiling over half a cup of spiked eggnog. “Why can’t you just…let them be?” 

Enjolras hadn’t even looked at him as he replied. “The media has convinced people that buying things and getting things, the heart of this part of the year, should make them happy. So, that’s what they are. It’s not real.”

Grantaire had given him a strange look then, before Bahorel whispered something in his ear. Then he had turned away. Enjolras had felt strangely empty. 

This year though… This year was different. 

This year there were lights on when he let himself into the apartment. This year… there was a tree. This year Grantaire had even set up a ridiculous Nativity scene on one of the end tables, so that his mother wouldn’t cry when she came to visit them the next day. This year they had put up a menorah, even though Hanukkah was long over, because Courfeyrac had some crazy idea of exposing his children to all of the world’s religions and seeing where they would go from there. This year everything smelled amazing, because Grantaire had been cooking since early afternoon, preparing a stunning dinner for when Combeferre and Courfeyrac brought the twins along later. This year there was someone there, when he opened the apartment door, someone waiting, someone who cared enough not to let him spend this time alone. 

This year, he was in love. 

“O, good, you’re home,” Grantaire said, walking in from the kitchen. He was wiping flour on an apron, and had white all through his dark hair. “Courf said that they’re bringing the boys over in an hour. I was thinking we could have dinner when they got here? And then we could give the boys their presents, feed them some sugar, and send them off to wait for Santa.” He smiled up at Enjolras then. “That sound good to you?” 

Enjolras couldn’t help his smile as he nodded. “Sounds fantastic.”

“Then we both have the night off to drink semi-alcoholic eggnog and snuggle each other into submission,” Grantaire said quickly, as though Enjolras hadn’t spoken at all. His expression was nervous, and he checked Enjolras’ expression (bemused) before he relaxed. 

“You know, you don’t have to ask me permission to want to snuggle me, right?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. Grantaire cracked a smile (Enjolras using the word ‘snuggle’ was something to smile at) and shrugged. 

“I have to ask your permission to actually do it,” he said, turning back to the kitchen. “Excuse me for trying to kill two birds with one stone.” Enjolras grinned after him, then went to change into whatever it was you wore to your nephews first Christmas with their dads (‘twas a momentous occasion to be sure, but a suit was a little much, yes? He had a red pullover sweater he liked. That would have to do.)

“You’re wearing khakis?” Grantaire sounded incredulous as he walked back into the room. Enjolras met his gaze sheepishly and shrugged. 

“Too much?” he asked. 

“Enjolras, they’re two and a half. I doubt they care what you wear. I’m just worried they’re going to get pasta sauce on their hands and then try to hug your legs,” Grantaire answered. 

“They’d still get stained, even if I was wearing jeans,” Enjolras argued. Grantaire met his eyes, looking a little confused. 

“Yeah, but you don’t wear the jeans to work,” Grantaire said. Then the oven beeped, and he dashed off to make sure his lasagna was done. Enjolras stood awkwardly, looking after him, for a moment, before deciding that, maybe, jeans would be better. He changed. 

The doorbell rang a short while later; the door was opened to reveal their friends, small squealing boys in tow. Enjolras loved them already, from their dark haired little heads down to their little toes. He loved them before he knew for certain they were coming here, all the way from a little, rundown village in rural China. 

“Uncle ‘Jowas,” Oliver squealed, running in and instantly attaching himself to Enjolras’ leg. Enjolras smiled as he bent down and scooped him up, making a mental note to thank Grantaire later for suggesting he change his pants. 

“Glad to see you too,’ Courfeyrac said, loudly, maneuvering through the entryway easily, while swinging a large grocery bag, and another, larger bag which Enjolras vaguely remembered as the infamous diaper bag. Combeferre followed close behind, holding Dylan at his hip. He smiled at Enjolras before bending his face to the shyer boy and moving his lips in a question. Dylan nodded once, and Combeferre bent to place him on the ground; instantly, he was walking over to Enjolras, and hugging his legs as well. He glanced up, and Enjolras bent down to place a soft kiss on the boy’s forehead. He then smiled, as he detached and followed his brother into the kitchen. 

“I’m guessing the surgery went well then,” Enjolras said, hopefully. Dylan had been quiet even before his cleft palate surgery, and Enjolras doubted it was extreme pain in his mouth that was keeping him quiet. 

“It went swimmingly. In and out with hardly a scratch. We had to promise to let him sleep in our bed though, for about a month afterwards, which, of course, meant that Oliver needed to be there too,” Courfeyrac sighed dramatically, but Enjolras could see he was smiling. “It was just terrible not having a bed to ourselves.” He winked at Combeferre, who was flushing at his implication, just slightly. 

“You found alternative methods,” he said lowly. 

“I _had_ to. It was a matter of necessity,” Courfeyrac replied, grinning like a maniac. Then someone cleared their throat, and everyone was suddenly staring at Grantaire, who was wearing a bemused expression and trying to reign in two squirming boys. 

“How about dinner?” he said loudly. And Enjolras had to restrain himself from snorting with laughter, especially when he caught sight of Combeferre’s exasperated expression. Then he moved towards the dining area. 

“It smells amazing,” Combeferre said, moving in behind Enjolras. He smiled towards Grantaire as Dylan darted over and started pulling on his pant leg, making the universal signal for ‘up.’ Combeferre obliged, before moving to sit. 

“It smells like you didn’t let Enjolras near the kitchen. Good move,” Courfeyrac smiled, dazzlingly. Enjolras scowled at him. “Oliver, stop climbing your uncle and come sit down.”

Oliver resolutely refused to listen, until Grantaire deposited him in the seat next to him. The boy squealed as he went down, and Enjolras smiled as Grantaire grinned. 

Was Grantaire good with kids? Yes. Did Enjolras like that Grantaire was good with kids? Well, yes. Did that mean that they themselves were ever going to adopt? He had no idea. He wasn’t sure he wanted a kid. Babies weren’t the type of things that took well to being brushed off, even if they understood that you were trying to save mankind. Which, frequently, they didn’t. And Enjolras didn’t want to be the reason that any child spent their Christmas sad and alone, feeling unwanted. 

Enjolras desperately didn’t want to be his parents. Maybe that was what this was about. 

There was a warm hand covering his. He followed the arm and found himself looking into the face of his boyfriend, who was mildly concerned under his general mirth and vivacity. Enjolras smiled, trying to reassure him. Grantaire’s answering press of the hand told him that he had. 

Dinner, from that point on, went off without a hitch. Predictably, both boys loved lasagna. Dylan even gave it a shy thumbs up, causing Grantaire to leap out of his seat and give the giggling boy and sloppy kiss to the temple. Oliver hadn’t stopped chattering about how much he loved the food since it was put on his plate; this meant, however, that he hadn’t eaten much. When he started pouting over the fact that Dylan had gotten a kiss and not him, Grantaire dropped a kiss to his temple as well, before stealing the boy’s fork and spearing a bite that he purposefully glided into Oliver’s mouth. After that, Oliver was pretty quiet. 

Courfeyrac drank more wine than anyone should, and soon his cheeks were rosy and he was talking more than normal (which was almost as much as Oliver). Combeferre was alternating watching his husband with a bemused expression on his face and speaking to Enjolras. Enjolras was just enjoying watching them, thinking of how this both resembled old times, while looking nothing like it, at all. 

Dinner was finished in good time, before either Oliver or Dylan fell asleep in their pasta. Courfeyrac helped Grantaire take all the dishes to the kitchen, then, while Enjolras helped Combeferre get both boys into the living room. Neither of them had any idea what was about to happen – they had never had a Christmas before – but Dylan was poking at Enjolras’s face curiously, so he guessed that they knew something was up. Kids were smart, Enjolras knew. 

“Dad, what’s happening?” Oliver asked, tramping along at Combeferre’s feet. Combeferre bent and snatched him up, saying something about Christmas. 

“So, aside from all the religious importance put into these days, by those who abide by religion, this is a time of year when families get together to spend time with one another. And, to show how thankful they are for one another, there is generally an exchange of gifts,” Combeferre was explaining, when suddenly, there was a tug on Enjolras’ ear. He looked and found Dylan regarding him expectantly. He leant down. 

“Does that mean that we’re going to get presents?” he said quietly, into Enjolras’s ear. And Enjolras couldn’t help chuckling as he nodded. 

“Yes, Dylan. You’re going to get presents,” he said. And Dylan grinned, his entire face looking as though it was lit from behind. 

At that moment, Courfeyrac chose to come out of the kitchen, a Santa hat poised atop his dark hair, a bag slung over his shoulder, singing at the top of his lungs. Dylan hid his in Enjolras’s shoulder, while Oliver broke down into raucous laughter. Courf just grinned, before setting the bag on the ground, and rooting around a bit, before pulling a brightly wrapped present from its depths. 

“Is… Oliver here?” he said gravely. And Oliver, bright smile plastered on his face, raced up and accepted his gift, before racing back to Combeferre and promptly plopping down to unwrap his gift. 

“And I know, if Oliver is here, that Dylan must be as well,” Courfeyrac said, pulling another gift from the bag. He met Dylan’s eyes, with an easy smile, and walked over with the gift when Dylan beckoned. 

“Daddy, what are you doing?” he asked softly. And Courfeyrac smiled before sliding his gift into his hand. 

“Giving you your presents,” Courf answered, before kissing his son’s forehead. “Why don’t you go and sit with your brother and open them?” 

Dylan nodded and obliged, and soon there was a layer of wrapping paper littering the carpet. Three gifts each (two from their dads, and one from their uncles), and now the boys were fascinated with the Rubik’s Cube Grantaire had insisted on giving to Dylan, insisting that, yes, even a two year old needed a Rubik’s Cube, and Dylan had told Grantaire he wanted one. Enjolras had eventually given in and, seeing the looks on the boys’ faces as they looked at it, he couldn’t bring himself to think it anything but a stroke of genius on Grantaire’s part. 

Soon, however, the boys were tired. And once they were tired, it was next to impossible to dissuade them from falling asleep wherever they were sitting. Oliver was better at fighting it, and he managed to kiss Enjolras and Grantaire good-bye and a Happy Holiday before being scooped up and taken down to the car. 

“It’s a good thing they’re asleep now. I wasn’t sure if it would be easy to get them down at home,” Courfeyrac said gently, hovering just outside the door, saying goodbye. He was stroking Dylan’s hair back from his head and smiling at him. “And, you know, Santa’s coming tonight. They need to be asleep.” 

And before Enjolras was able to protest about what deceiving children now could do to them later in life, he was gone. 

Grantaire was cleaning up the wrapping paper when Enjolras got back to the living room. 

“Those boys are…something,” he said. And Grantaire glanced over and smiled at him. 

“They have good parents. And they’re good boys,” he said and shrugged. “What d’you think? Should we let them keep them?”

When Enjolras looked at him, a bit blankly, Grantaire sighed and, arms full of wrapping paper, kissed him. Then he walked off to the kitchen, to recycle the paper. 

“Christmas is weird,” Enjolras said, when he came back. 

“I concur,” Grantaire said, nodding sagely, and sitting at his feet. “I kinda like it though. I mean, I didn’t used to. But, you know, now I have _friends_ , right?” Enjolras pulled his hair gently in protest. Grantaire mimed an excess of pain. “Well, and there’s you. You kinda make things better. When you’re not trying to hurt me with those terrible hands of yours.” And he smiled, and kissed the side of Enjolras’s knee. 

Enjolras just smiled, gently combing through Grantaire’s hair, and said, “Me too,” softly. Just loud enough for Grantaire to turn around and look at him, with an eyebrow cocked. 

“The friends are nice,” he said in return. “And you just kind of make everything better. Especially Christmas. I was just agreeing with you.” And then Grantaire was kissing him, abruptly, passionately, perfectly. And he kissed back. 

“I love you,” Grantaire said, pulling away for just a moment. “I’ve been waiting to do that all evening, and then you said nice things and I had to. Happy whatever you want to call this, I love you, and can I kiss you again?”

And Enjolras couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he answered, “Love you too. Merry Christmas, and of _course_.” And that was that.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays lovely humans!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy holiday fluff and I hope you all have a great evening!! :)


End file.
